FFN and the BAU
by ZuWang
Summary: What happens when the illustrious agents of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit get hold of the Google searches fanfiction writers make every day? It's game on! Pure crack and silliness.


**FFN lets us be endlessly creative and silly. This is a shout-out and a huge thank you to the writers I've met on Facebook and who helped me write this today.**

 **Yes - all of the searches, and all of the authors mentioned in this fic are real. Some are here on FFN and others are over at Archive of Our Own. I wrote this as a gift to them and to all of you wonderful weird fanfiction writers out there.**

The team had been home for less than 24 hours when Penelope Garcia announced a meeting in the roundtable room. This was not, of course, unusual but the distinctly festive décor which greeted each team member upon their entry was.

"Christmas lights, Garcia?" quirked Tara Lewis quizzically. "It's February."

"It is February, my dear Dr. Lewis, and this is when we will celebrate the holiday of Christ, as well as the holiday of lights," she flicked a lighter and touched the flame to the center candle on a menorah, "and the holiday of love." She completed the collection by mashing a button on her remote control. Instead of its usual fare of gruesome crime scene photos, the room's plasma screen filled with circling hearts, kittens, and the ugliest cartoon Cupid she'd been able to find. Frank Sinatra's _My Funny Valentine_ began to play in the background, and Rossi nodded in approval. "Because you, my loves, have not had a break since those horrible snow-bunny murdering frat boys on winter vacation in Colorado, and you deserve a holiday – or three – and today we have time to do it."

Wide grins answered this pronouncement, as the team turned to the array of holiday-themed foods (where had Garcia found Christmas cookies in February?) on the table, picked up glasses of punch, and began to relax. The party settled quickly to a conversation revolving around whether they had to hold December 25th as the "real" Christmas due to Greek Orthodox disagreement (Matt's international perspective), the early Christian habit of taking over other religions' pre-existing holidays (thank you David Rossi) or (as Reid averred at length) seasonal drift associated with two millennia of politically-motivated calendar adjustments and non-standard year-to-day time intervals in the earth's rotations.

Just as the conversation was getting around to astrophysics in earnest, Penelope interrupted. "Okay, okay, settle down party animals. It's time for a game."

"We play games now?" Responded Luke Alvez incredulously.

"Yes, New Guy," answered Penelope. "We play games. Specifically, we play one game, which you are too new to have played with us before because we've only played it twice so far and we don't often get the materials to play it because they belong to the NSA and there's a whole inter-agency rivalry thing which you are too new to truly understand."

From that unbelievably fast and sarcastic rant, Luke was able to pick out a single highlight.

"We get the game materials from the NSA?"

Spencer was grinning from ear to ear. "IT'S FICTION TIME!"

"Fiction time?" asked Tara.

"Yes," explained Penelope. "Fiction Time. The game where we are given a series of Google search terms investigated by the NSA, and try to determine if these searches were made by writers of fiction, or by serial killers and/or terrorists."

"This is a game?" started Luke, before really thinking through the implications, "Wait. The NSA monitors Google that closely? That's kind of creepy."

"Oh, new guy, you have no idea how creepy my tech analyst counterparts in the No-Such-Agency can get. Fortunately, they're also part of the sorta silly-crazy-fun hacker community, so every once in a while, they share the fruits of their creepy labor with others in-the-know who happen to have security clearance. Such as yours truly." Penelope clicked a button on the remote again, and words came up on the screen behind her; SEARCH SEQUENCE 1. "So… for your gaming pleasure, and for the prize of a recently acquired batch of my Chocolate Thunder Derek Morgan's mother's peach cobbler, I hereby present…"

"Wait," interrupted Emily, her competitive nature coming to the fore at the mention of a prize worth its weight in gold. "Hold on. The last time we played this, Reid ran the table with it."

"Yeah!" agreed JJ with a grin, "Spence has read, like, every book in the history of mankind. He always wins this! It's totally rigged."

"Aaahhhh, but I've thought of that." Responded Penelope conspiratorially. "All searches contained in the following game are either related to real-life crimes, or from the creators of that often-sketchy but always interesting corner of the interwebs, FAN FICTION."

Rossi's eyes nearly rolled through the back of his head, but he joined the team in laughing at their technical analyst's (and the NSA's) creative answer to the Reid reading problem. Spencer Reid had read every book any of them would be able to name, in English and who-knows-how-many other languages, but Reid was also a luddite. His likelihood of having inhaled the contents of or was next to nil.

Spencer's lips pursed in consternation, his grin disappearing as he considered this challenge to his literary knowledge, but he accepted it without complaint.

"Okay then, game on." Emily said, nodding with satisfaction, "let's play."

Garcia clicked the button with a flourish, and in her best ring-leader voice announced, "Ladies and Gentlemen, your first set of Google search terms is:

 **Tools needed to butcher a human**

 **How many pounds of meat fit in a freezer?**

 **Average weight of a full-grown human male**

 **How long is a human femur?**

 **Dimensions of an average household refrigerator**

 **How long would it take to disarticulate an adult human?**

"My dear friends, is it fan fiction or murder?"

"You mean is it fan fiction or murder according to the NSA?" confirmed Spencer, as accuracy is important.

"According to the NSA." Affirmed Penelope.

"Well," started Emily, her mind racing, "experience tends to trump the written word, as far as disarticulation is concerned."

JJ nodded, "Yeah, taking a person apart is much harder than someone would expect it to be. The person who searched this seems to think it's more about spatial relations, like how much human would fit in their freezer. Anyone who'd actually tried this would be searching for tips on the disarticulation itself; not the storage issues. I'm calling it fan fiction."

"Give the girl a cookie!" Garcia tossed a frosted Christmas tree in JJ's direction. "We have fan fiction, written just this year by an upstanding and lovely mother of two in Pennsylvania."

"What the Hell kind of fiction is this person writing?" interjected Luke, his eyes wide. "I thought fan fiction was all gay porn! The Hell are they doing Googling 'how to chop up a body?'"

"My dear newbie, they are being CREATIVE!" Responded Garcia with a laugh, "and besides which, in the world of fan fiction, disarticulation and gay smut are not mutually exclusive. Fanfic has time for all the bodies, in all possible combinations, and in all the possible situations they can get into!"

"Moreover," started Spencer, his mouth racing as fast as his mind as usual, "fan fiction is not by any means all erotic, nor is that part of it which is erotic necessarily gay, or as they term it, 'slash' fiction. Despite its reputation, the genre actually includes a fair percentage of…"

Garcia cut him off. "And thank you for that illuminating treatise, Dr. Reid, but unfortunately our time is limited, and we're going to need to move on to our next selection of Google searches before one of these Google searchers gets it into her head to act on her latest searches. Speaking of which," she clicked the remote, "you tell me; fan fiction or terrorist watch list?"

The searches which appeared on the screen were:

 **Symptoms of avian influenza**

 **Infectivity of avian influenza**

 **Virus distribution**

 **Equipment needed to grow viruses**

 **Time between exposure to avian influenza and symptoms appear**

 **Symptoms of radiation poisoning**

 **Time between exposure to radiation and symptoms appear**

 **[Various] medical supply companies, prices, related searches.**

"Well, he'd better be on someone's watch list," was Dave Rossi's comment. His voice was more than concerned. "Where did they catch this guy?"

Garcia checked a notebook in her hand and laughed. "Well, the searches were made from a computer in Northwest Washington DC, if it makes you feel any better."

"No," was Rossi's immediate response. His eyes were wide. "I can't say that it does. Please tell me that this was fan fiction."

"Is that your final answer?" responded Garcia.

"No…" unfortunately, the team had run into too many psychopaths to completely discount this selection of search terms, especially with the ominous sounding supply company searches. "…yes. Yes. I'm going with fan fiction, because I live in Northwest Washington DC and I am an eternal optimist who doesn't want to think that one of his fine neighbors is currently attempting to grow avian flu in Georgetown."

"And you would be right!" Garcia tossed a Christmas cookie to her colleague. "Pen name ZuWang, for a fiction about the Flash."

"What Flash?" asked Spencer.

"Oh, THE Flash," answered JJ with a knowing smile. "as in, the comic book character who can run faster than the speed of sound. As in, the character my son wants to see in a battle royale with Superman, because he and his friends have a running bet about who would win."

"Oh!" Matt exclaimed, "we can add into that battle Wonder Woman, since two of my kids have been bickering back and forth for the past year about what would happen if Superman tried to get fresh with her."

"So basically," Rossi said, pride in his other profession peeking through, "you're both saying that your children are budding fan fiction authors in their own lives."

JJ and Matt looked surprised, but JJ had to admit, "Yeah, I guess so!"

"Well," said Garcia, bringing the group back to order, "let's hope if they do write, the NSA never has to check out this set of search terms on their computers." and the next set of terms appeared:

 **Temperature to melt human flesh**

 **Temperature at which human dies**

 **Temperature to burn human flesh**

 **Melting temperature of steel**

 **Temperature to blacken steel**

 **Type of steel swords are made of**

"Yeah, that guy's definitely trying to get rid of a body." Tara said immediately.

"Or just to torture someone," Reid responded in that bizarrely offhand way in which he discusses such things. "he seems to be asking how to melt or burn the person without actually killing him. The answer, by the way, depends on both the type of steel and the conditions of the room. More humidity would increase the likelihood of melting versus burning, and…"

"Yeah. Okay. Ick." Garcia responded, switching the monitor back to kittens and hearts. "So, Tara, you spoke up first. Is it fan fiction or murder… or, you know… icky melty torture?"

"I'm going with torture. The unsub wants to cause pain without killing, and that takes a bit of research when you're planning to use fire as your torture method."

Garcia pressed a button on the remote and a screenshot from appeared. "Nope, sorry, no cookie for you. Once again, this is a set of searches from the creatively insane mind of an author named Raiven_Raine."

"Well, you know," said Emily, "I am coming to believe that the FBI simply shouldn't trust authors at all."

"HEY!" responded Rossi indignantly. "Present company excluded, I presume?"

"I don't know…" Emily's faux-suspicion devolved into laughter as Rossi launched a baked snowman at her.

"No, no, no!" Luke grabbed the plate of cookies off the table. "No food fights with yummy cookies." He placed the goodies out of danger on the far side of the table, then snatched one and took a bite. "What's our next psychopathic search, Penelope?"

"Thank you, newbie. For saving both my cookies and the extremely expensive technology in this room from flying cookie crumbs, you get two points in the game."

"There are points?" Matt asked.

"Of course there are points. How else would we know who gets the cobbler?"

Right. Mrs. Morgan's peach cobbler. The team settled down to the serious business of earning the points they didn't know they needed. The next series of searches appeared on the screen.

 **Effects of chloroform**

 **How to make chloroform**

 **Neck snap break**

 **Foolproof suffocation**

 **Depth of Lake Conway**

"It's actually surprisingly easy to make chloroform at home, as long as you have a well-ventilated spot to do it in," lectured Reid. "unfortunately, or maybe fortunately though it didn't work out for her obviously, Caylee Anthony's murderer couldn't have made it because it needs to be manufactured in a colder environment than was available where he lived." Spencer took a breath, looked around, and then confirmed, "Yes, that's my final answer. These Google searches were associated with the murder of Caylee Anthony in Orlando Florida in 2008. They unfortunately were discovered too late to convict her mother of the death. The jury never saw them, and she got away with it."

The team said nothing, but Luke silently handed Spencer a cookie.

A moment passed, while the team watched kittens circle on the screen and listened to _White Christmas_ on the overhead speakers. Once they'd had a minute to reconcile their professional lives with the purported festivities, JJ spoke up. "Yup. Now I'm gonna need some booze. Dave, do you still have any of that super-expensive whiskey in your office?"

"If you mean by 'super-expensive whiskey,' my bottle of twenty-one-year-old, wine-cask-aged, single malt Balvenie, then yes." He stood to retrieve it, but paused when their team leader piped in.

"Yup," agreed Emily, "bring in the booze that's old enough to drink itself."

Dave just shook his head in (perhaps feigned) disappointment, and headed for his office. By the time he'd returned with the Scotch, the team had recovered. Penelope was making an effort to explain just what exactly the NSA was doing with these searches, without actually saying it, since that would have broken her security-clearance-required silence. What resulted was enough half-truths and semi-pantomimes to clue in the assembled agents without Penelope actually _technically_ saying how she'd come by the data. Rossi laughed at his young colleagues' not-quite-legal banter and passed out the glasses.

"Good!" Garcia announced, then sipped her drink. "Oh, very good. Mmmm. Alright, on to the game. As a recap, the score currently stands at two points for SSA Alvez, and one point each for JJ, Rossi, and Reid. Now we move on to the following London-based search terms, in honor of our dear friend Derek Morgan AKA Chocolate Thunder, who made our game possible and with whom I once explored this fine city." she clicked the remote.

 **blueprints, metropolitan police HQ London**

 **complete layout of London metropolitan police floor plan**

 **banks likely to have no cameras**

 **locations of [various banks outside of London]**

 **least busy times for banks**

 **opening times of [various rural banks]**

 **substitute ingredients for explosives**

"Seriously, when you think London, you think of Derek. You don't think of me?" Emily tried to sound offended, but by now the team had finally managed to relax.

"Well, Agent Prentiss, boss ma'am," said Garcia, saluting jauntily, "you know I love you and I would never say a word against you."

"But I have nothing on Derek Morgan?" Emily completed the thought.

"Oh honey, NO ONE has anything on Derek Morgan." Penelope confirmed in her sultriest voice. "The question before the group, however, is not whether my hunka-hunka-burning-love boils my tea better than a kettle on the surface of the sun – he does – rather, the question is, 'Did the NSA have to put in a call to your ex-colleagues at Interpol?'"

Emily answered in a hurry, "If they did, the unsubs are going to have a rude awakening. They're not going to find a bank anywhere near London that doesn't have cameras. That city is wired. For. Sound."

"London has the second largest surveillance camera network in the world, following only Beijing." Confirmed Spencer.

"So is this a seriously ineffective unsub, or a fiction writer who has to send her characters to Gringotts to ensure low camera coverage?" Garcia prompted.

"The second one." Emily sounded fully sure. "It's gotta be."

Penelope tossed her boss a cookie. "Yes indeed! We have the fiction of the wonderful Olimakiella, who's unsubs may, indeed have gone to Gringotts, as she specializes in the type of Harry Potter fiction which makes me long for Hogwarts."

"Really?" asked JJ, intrigued. "How do you spell…" the name appeared on the plasma screen and JJ scribbled it down to the good-natured laughter of her teammates.

"Okay, it's down to the wire now." Garcia said, "We've got time for one more round. Mr. Newbie Luke Alvez is still in the lead with two points, thanks to his Christmas cookie rescue, but it's anyone's game. The following search history is worth two points and a batch of peach cobbler which will make your mouth sing Auld Lang Syne..."

 **constructing a backpack bomb**

 **[various] explosives**

 **How much TNT can a regular person buy?**

 **Easy-to-find explosives**

 **How to make nitroglycerin**

 **How many match heads to ignite nitroglycerin?**

 **detonators using cell phone battery**

 **detonator back up mechanism**

 **remote controls**

 **diatomaceous earth**

 **volume of standard backpack**

 **volume of 2 inch pipe**

Rossi opened his mouth in triumph as soon as he saw the list, but Spencer's lightning-fast reading speeds got him there first.

"WAIT! Wait wait wait…" Reid stood up, a look of surprise and betrayal on his face, "You're cheating!"

"I'm, what now?" Garcia responded in confusion. "How could I be cheating? How does one cheat in Fiction Time? I can't cheat in Fiction Time. It's my game! I made up the rules. It's not possible for me to cheat in a game where I made up the rules."

Spencer looked from her to David, who had affected his best poker face, and back. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Rossi," he said, "You know exactly what I'm saying."

"Well I don't!" Emily exclaimed.

"Yeah, share the secret with the class!" responded Tara.

"It's a plant!" replied Spencer, now sounding indignant. "Not only is that both a real crime AND a fictional one, the writer of the fan fiction it appears in is sitting RIGHT THERE!" he pointed to Rossi, who had the good grace to at least look embarrassed.

The team turned to their oldest member. Their _professional author_ oldest member.

Garcia was the first to speak. "You?" she asked, her eyebrows raising. "YOU are BlackHunter666?"

"Yes I am." He sounded smug.

"You write fan fiction?" Luke asked, "Seriously?"

"Yes I do."

"And it's good, too." Confirmed Spencer. "He's got more than a hundred works, based on everything from video games to the old Hogan's Heroes series."

The team looked at Reid like he'd grown three heads.

"I don't know why you all assumed I don't read fan fiction. There's some impressively creative content on fanfiction dot net. I just like to print it out before reading it." He turned to Garcia, "Now, I believe you have some cobbler for me?"

Penelope headed toward the sixth-floor kitchen area to retrieve their resident genius's prize. The sound of tapping filled in the silence as she walked out of the round table room. Every member of the BAU was looking something up on their phones.


End file.
